


End of the Lane

by SummerAtLast



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerAtLast/pseuds/SummerAtLast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith goes bowling with Sips, and tries to complete the overdue blood sacrifice. Things don't work out as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Lane

**Author's Note:**

> It took a village to beta this fic - Three, Lucy, Boa, Meaghan, Jay, Hannah, Dex, Snail, Allie, Mel, and Julia. Thank you all for your enthusiasm, insight, and attention to detail.  
> And thank you, Lynna, for taking the brass knuckles to this fic twice.  
> Update: now with [bonus DVD commentary track](http://https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wB5qe8cbwRC2Eom7yN-m-KzGBquGRTKPvXLNqbd9ng4/edit?usp=sharing) for the end of it.

The bowling alley was awful.

It stank of cheap hot dogs and stale beer, and Smith sulked as he unlaced his boots to hand to the spotty teenager behind the counter. He watched carefully to make sure they weren’t scuffing the toes. Those were his favorite boots, and the bowling shoes he got in return were not a fair exchange. He knelt to put on his rented shoes. Red and blue. His lip curled, but it was the only pair left in his size.

“They make ’em those colors so nobody will steal ’em,” Sips said. “But I like ’em.”

Smith grimly tightened his laces and consoled himself with the fact that Sips’ shoes were worse, a disgusting green and yellow. Well, maybe not much of a consolation, considering Sips _owned_ the damn things, and had the nerve to go out in public wearing them. At least the lights in the bowling alley were low, though Smith’s white shirt glowed in the blacklights. His leather jacket covered most of it, but there was an uncomfortably bright stripe visible from stomach to throat. He knotted his laces firmly and stood up.

Wasn’t much of a party, he thought dismissively. The lights were right, and the crowd was heavily skewed towards college students, but the music was loud and awful, and people clustered at their little bowling stations, talking to each other and watching balls skid down the lanes. He might still have been able to salvage something out of this, catch the eye of one of the girls at the food counter or one of the boys in that loud drunken cluster, but Sips pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. Smith scooped up the heavy case Sips had given him, and followed.

“Come on, let’s get you some balls.” Sips raised his voice to be heard over the music, but his tone was still smooth and unhurried.

“Already got some, mate.” Smith grinned, flashing his eyebrows.

Sips didn’t seem to notice, scanning the racks of bowling balls. He spun them around, lifting a few out of the rack before putting them down again. Smith watched him dubiously. How different could they be? They were just bowling balls.

“So, you’ve never bowled before, you wanna start out with something light?”

Smith frowned. “Sips, mate, what the hell am I carrying?” He held up the bowling ball case.

“That’s mine,” said Sips.

“And the bag you’re carrying?”

“Also mine.”

Smith raised an eyebrow. “Sharing is caring, Sips.”

“They’re not gonna fit your fingers, Smiffy. Try this one.” He offered a ball, dull green and heavy. “Go on.”

Smith grimaced, setting the case down on the rack and reaching for the ball. Sips pulled it away from him.

“Your other hand, Smiffy. You’re a lefty, right?”

“Not right.” Smith flashed him a grin, reaching for the ball again with his right hand.

Sips shrugged. “Cute.”

Smith slid his fingers in, wincing a little at the well-worn slickness where other people’s hands had been. Not that he minded holes with a bit of history, but the bowling ball was about as appealing as the stench of hot dogs and feet. It felt like a doorknob, anonymously grimy. He took an awkward grip on the ball, two fingers and a thumb, and lifted it out of Sips’ hands. It was unexpectedly heavy, and he grunted as it threw him off balance, but Sips’ hands were there to keep it from falling, supporting it from the bottom. Smith set his jaw, picking it up again smoothly.

Sips watched him mildly, then shook his head. “Nah, that one’s not for you.” He tugged at it, and Smith released it into his hands and wiped his hand against his trousers. Sips pushed it back into the rack, and continued his unhurried search. Smith watched him. And watched him. Sips moved balls from the lower rack to the upper rack, rearranged their order, tested their holes. Smith’s foot tapped in his hard-soled rented shoe. He sighed. Sips didn’t notice.

“Which one’s our lane?” Smith said abruptly.

“Number eleven. I’ll set up the scoreboard, don’t worry, just dump your stuff.”

Smith checked the glowing signs. Number eleven’s lane was lit up, the screen overhead showing some sort of a grid instead of the Cosmo Bowling screensaver. He picked up the bowling ball case and took a step towards it.

“Take mine while you’re at it,” said Sips absently.

Smith’s lips tightened. He considered ignoring Sips, but Smith had already paid for the shoes and the lane. It was worth staying on Sips’ good side. For now.

It was long past midwinter. The sacrifice was overdue. Couldn’t just crown a king and then not kill him, then he’d start getting _ideas._ Start wanting to give _orders_. Run things. Smith had no intention of ceding control to anyone, let alone some upstart mortal who didn’t even know better than to accept a crown. Smith shouldered Sips’ heavy duffel bag.

The Burger King crown they had given Sips was ripped beyond saving. They’d taped the tab shut when it tore and reattached the fiddly bits on top of the crown, but tape only went so far. Smith wasn’t even sure where it was anymore - if it had been thrown out or was lost somewhere between the couch cushions, crushed and forgotten. He’d been generous with their paper king. Could have done him a hundred times over, if he wanted to.

He just… never got around to it.

But he couldn’t stand Trott’s pointed looks anymore. Smith figured he’d make a night of it, show Sips a good time the way the ritual of Misrule demanded, and then he’d finish things. It was hard to do in front of the others. Couldn’t just do him on the sofa as he and Ross watched a cooking show. Couldn’t really work it into conversation at the breakfast table. Just felt wrong to do it in the bathroom. It had to be something special. That was what rituals were about. So he’d asked Sips what he liked best, and bowling it was. He could do an afternoon of bowling. How hard could it be?

The bowling alley had made a halfhearted attempt at a science fiction theme, featuring a novelty carpet and fluorescent paint that glowed in the blacklights. Smith heaved the bags onto the table at lane eleven. Despite the paint splatters, the seats bolted around the round table looked like a great deal like they were scavenged from a bus station. The gaudy stars and swirls of nightclub lights drifted across dark, empty lanes around him.

Smith looked back over his shoulder. Sips was taking his time at the racks, lifting bowling balls and putting them back. He didn’t even spare Smith a glance.

Smith breathed out hard through his nose and drummed his fingers on the table, glancing around. Sips’ lumpy duffel bag and bowling ball case were denim, and they were both embroidered with a name. Smith leaned closer to read it. _Sipserino_. He wondered if it was more or less real than the name Sips, and traced the embroidery with a finger. It probably didn’t mean anything. Smith straightened up. Maybe he would do Sips a favor, unload the balls while he was waiting, put them into the machine at the front of the lane.

No, fuck him. He made Smith carry it all the way from the car, and he didn’t even intend to let Smith use it. Sips should have carried it his own damned self. Smith’s indignation drove him to the console at the front of the lane and he decided to plug in their names anyway, he had paid for the damn lane.

He’d hoped Cosmo Bowling would at least belong to this century, but it was like bloody science fiction from the eighties, all gaudy technicolor and painfully out-of-date computers. He winced. Sips liked this sort of thing? God, it was awful. The console was square and plastic - Smith supposed it was meant to fit with the theme, but it looked suspiciously like a keyboard glued to a fast food bin.

Smith pecked at the keyboard irritably, spelling out his name. He considered typing Sipserino next, but quickly gave up on fighting the computer for all those extra letters.

“Hey, Smiffy!”

Sips waved him over. Smith jammed his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys as he strolled over.

“Come and get ’em,” Sips said, gesturing at the top rack of bowling balls.

“What, all of them?”

“Nah, just one or two. Pick your favorites.”

Smith hefted the bowling balls one by one as Sips watched.

“They’re all the same,” Smith said, frowning.

“Okay, fine, _I’ll_ pick your favorites,” Sips said with exaggerated patience. “Do it again.”

“Go on, then,” challenged Smith. “Give it your best shot.”

Smith tried the balls again, one by one. Sips watched with polite interest, and chose two seemingly at random.

For all the time and effort Sips had wasted, there was really nothing special about them. Smith wondered if Sips was having a laugh at his expense. “Best ones in the alley, are they?” he snarled.

“Of course they are,” said Sips.

Smith had to carry both of the balls to their lane, of course, the three-finger grip still feeling odd and unfamiliar to him. He could see why Sips put his in bags. He took them to the ball dispenser and gratefully released them, working his fingers with a sour expression.

Sips had his back to Smith, unzipping the bowling ball bag and easing the denim sheath down. The bowling ball inside was shockingly pink, and streaked like marble. Smith stared at it as Sips nonchalantly loaded it into the machine. The second ball was marbled with swirls of a slightly dingier shade of pink, the finger holes smooth with use.

Sips placed the second ball in the dispenser. Smith knew damn well how heavy it was, but Sips handled the bowling ball like it was made of cotton candy.

Sips looked at the scoreboard. “Who’s Smith?” he asked.

“Me,” said Smith indignantly.

“Oh, that’s how you spell it?” Sips shrugged. “Okay then.”

Something twisted in Smith’s stomach, too fast for him to identify. Sips never called him anything but Smiffy. He didn’t have nicknames for the others. Maybe it meant something to him. Smith’s mouth twisted, and he looked at the scoreboard. Maybe he should have done it Sips’ way.

Sips settled into one of the chairs, hiking an ankle onto his knee. He was infuriatingly at ease, slinging an arm across the back and slouching into the hard plastic like it had been molded to fit his spine.

“You’re up, Smiffy,” said Sips.

Smith narrowed his eyes, but Sips didn’t seem to mean anything by it. Fine. Fuck him, then. It meant nothing, Smith didn’t care. He walked over to the dispenser, hefting out a green ball and tucking it under his arm.

The green ball was smaller than Sips’ candy pink ones. Smith’s lips pressed tight. Sips wasn’t taking him seriously, and the insult stung more than it should have. He tried to shrug it off; it wasn’t like it would matter for much longer. Not that it _did_ matter to begin with; Sips was just some fucking upstart mortal who’d gotten too big for his paper crown. Maybe Smith would get another crown for him, take Sips to the drive-through when they were done bowling; do it right this time. He could get ice cream while he was at it.

Smith looked back at Sips.

Sips idly waved him forward, plucking at his laces and taking an almost identical pair of shoes from the duffel bag. The pins were set up at the end of the lane, glowing white in the blacklight. Smith took the ball in that odd pinch grip, and stepped onto the wood of the bowling lane in his stiff borrowed shoes. They were disconcertingly slippery, and Smith’s stride was less certain than he had intended. He swung the ball forward and then back, and tightened his fingers when it threatened to slip out of his hand. With as much force as he could muster, Smith hurled it down the lane.

It tumbled out of his grip, clunking onto the smooth wood and skidding into the gutter, where it leisurely rolled out of sight. Smith frowned. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He circled back to the ball dispenser. An alien spaceship loading screen drifted across the monitor overhead, and the score flashed up. Zero. Smith bristled. Not that he’d been putting any effort into it, of course. It was a stupid sport and he had no intention of trying hard. Who’d want to be good at bowling?

He clenched his jaw and picked up his second ball, but Sips shook his head.

“Wait for it,” he said. He tossed a small cloth bag in the air, catching it with a puff of powder.

The machines at the end of the lane clicked into motion, picking up the pins and sweeping across the empty wood. Smith rolled his eyes. When the metal tucked back into place and the lights came on, Smith stepped forward, aimed, and threw the ball.

It went into the gutter even faster.

The machines came down, sweeping the untouched pins into the back.

“You want the baby bumpers?” asked Sips, not unkindly. He tucked the little chalk bag into his pocket. “I can get the guy to unlock them, no problem.”

“Oh fuck you, Sips.” Smith threw himself into the chair opposite Sips.

Sips shrugged. “No need to get embarrassed about it.”

“I’m not!” He crossed his arms.

The machines continued to whirr and clank, laying out a fresh set of pins, and the ball dispenser belatedly coughed up a green ball. The computer thought hard, circuits or whatever sizzling with effort before it tallied up Smith’s score of zero and declaring Sips’ turn.

“Go on, then,” snarled Smith. “Show me how it’s done.”

Sips picked up his bubblegum ball, stepping up to the lane with measured paces. His grip looked practiced, and he wound up gently and swung, dipping his knee and following through with his arm. It was a ridiculous pose, but the ball glided down the lane smoothly, smacking into the pins with a hard clatter and sending them flying. Only one was left standing.

The computer cheered, announcing that Sips had scored nine points, and flashed a diagram of the remaining pin on the screen overhead. Sips nodded pensively, waiting for the machines to sweep the debris.

Smith shifted, trying to lounge on the hard plastic chairs. He draped his arm over the back for a moment before wincing and pulling it back. He didn’t know how Sips did it. It was uncomfortable and unsexy. Sips leisurely picked up his second ball. The scoreboard loomed, ominously blank, and Smith’s jaw tightened at the prospect of an entire evening of this bullshit. Fuck bowling.

“How come it’s pink?” Smith said abruptly. “Keeps other people from stealing it?”

“ _I_ keep people from stealing it,” said Sips. “Gladys sure learned her fucking lesson.”

Smith looks at Sips with renewed interest. The balls looked like candy, but they were a good solid fifteen pounds if Smith was any judge, and Sips lifted them lightly.

“What’d you do, then?” Smith grinned.

“Wrote her a firm letter,” said Sips.

He took three quick steps and did that same ugly move, sending the ball skimming down the lane. It neatly clipped the pin, sending it spinning into the depths of the bowling lane. The scoreboard paused for thought, and then decided Sips had scored a spare, whatever that was.

Smith was out of his seat and at the ball dispenser before Sips had ambled his way back to the table.

“Try to relax, Smiffy,” said Sips.

“I am relaxed,” snarled Smith.

He wound up and swung, trying for a graceful pose. The ball clattered into the gutter, and he made a wrathful sound between his teeth. He didn’t look at Sips. He didn’t look at the screen.

It wasn’t that he cared about being good at bowling. It wasn’t that he was even trying all that hard. But he was trying hard enough that he felt he should at least have gotten a few pins for his efforts. He wouldn’t have put it past Sips to have slipped him a trick ball. The machines pretended to clean the lane. Smith picked up the ball and stood in front of the lane impatiently, tapping his foot. It was safer than pacing in slippery bowling shoes, and the hard leather made a satisfyingly sharp sound against the wood floor.

“Aw, don’t, Smiffy. Come sit down. Nobody likes an eager beaver.”

Smith bared his teeth. “That’s what she said.”

Sips snorted. “Suit yourself, but don’t strain your wrist holding the ball forever, you’re not used to it.”

“Think I can’t take it, Sips? I can take it. I’ll fucking take it, gimme the biggest one you got.” He stepped towards the ball dispenser, putting the green ball down.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Smiffy,” warned Sips. “You’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.” He didn’t move as Smith slid his fingers into a pink bowling ball. The thumb hole was tighter, but he could get it in. Fucking Sips just didn’t like sharing. Smith grinned at Sips, picking up the ball. His grin flickered at the weight, but he managed.

The machines put his pins back exactly where they were before. He took a deep breath and sized up the lane.

“Smiffy.”

“No.” He’d fucking show him.

Two steps, right foot first - he swung the ball back, hissing in a breath as the momentum twisted him, pinching hard to keep the heavy thing from slipping out of his fingers. And forwards again, smooth as a pendulum. Smith released at the end of the arc, the ball wrenching out of his fingers and bouncing loud and hard on the smooth wood before rattling into the gutter.

“Fucking bullshit!” he hissed, shaking the ache out of his hand.

“Watch it, Smiffy.” Sips didn’t sound angry, but his voice was firm. “Don’t damage the lane, they’ll take forever to fix it.”

Smith rounded on him. “This is a shit game, Sips. Let’s do something better.”

“I don’t want to.” Sips stood up, closing in on Smith, and Smith watched his face carefully for cues. He didn’t want to fuck up the evening so bad he’d have to start over - it had been hard enough to get Sips on his own the first time. “Come on, Smiffy. I’ll show you the ropes.” His voice dropped low and intimate, and Smith leaned in, wondering if the night wasn’t going to be a total wash. “Take off your jacket.”

“Why?” Smith flashed him a grin.

“Because I said so.” Sips’ voice was warm, as if Smith was in on the joke.

A shiver ran down Smith’s spine. Now that was more like it. He made a show of it, easing the jacket off his shoulders without breaking eye contact. Maybe they could skip the bowling entirely. The bathrooms couldn’t be all that bad, and if they were, Smith’s car was parked close by.

Sips watched with approval. “Hand it over.”

Smith gave him the jacket, and Sips walked away to hang it over the back of a chair, arranging the jacket so the chair was wearing it. Smith’s shirt glowed blue-white and vulnerable in the blacklights without his jacket to cover it. Smith opened his mouth, then shut it again as Sips picked up his bowling ball. He waited for a reaction, letting Sips knock down some pins, but Sips seemed comfortable ignoring him.

Smith crossed his arms. “I’ve had better foreplay, Sips.”

“You can’t bowl in that jacket. Binds you at the shoulders.” The machines swept the lane with slow, measured movements, and Sips didn’t pick up his ball until they had finished.

“You seriously just want to bowl?”

“Yeah, it’s fun.”

Smith narrowed his eyes, but Sips seemed sincere about it. Sips’ face was mild and distant as he bowled, not even showing a flash of interest in Smith, who was right there and available and wearing a tight shirt.

Sips didn’t even seem to mind not getting a perfect score every time - he didn’t act like this was a rehearsal or a competition. He just seemed to be quietly enjoying himself, knocking down pins and nodding along to the music in between turns.

Smith’s turn came up again, and Sips pulled a green ball out of the dispenser, holding it out to him.

“Thanks, mate.” Smith slid his fingers into the holes and tugged, but Sips didn’t let go.

“You’re letting go too late,” he said.

“So what, mate?” Smith shot him an annoyed glance, and Sips looked back steadily.

“Listen to me, Smiffy, or I’m getting the guy to put the bumpers up.”

The baby bumpers. Not even the high schoolers on lane eight had those. Smith pulled a face. “Fine, I’m listening.”

“Let go at the bottom of your swing or you’re gonna bounce the ball. And try to keep your wrist straight, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Smith tugged the ball and Sips released it.

Smith considered ignoring the advice, but he couldn’t really do much worse, and his wrist was starting to ache, just a bit. Might as well try it Sips’ way - for now. It’d make it easier to coax him out back later if he put on a show of cooperation.

Smith clipped three pins, and a fourth one shuddered before deciding to stay upright. Sips patted him on the back affably, watching the machine as it set up the pins again. That was really not the sort of attention Smith wanted, but he tolerated the weight of Sips’ hand on his back, warm through his thin tshirt. It was better than nothing.

“Good job,” said Sips. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

Something squirmed in Smith’s stomach. He was probably hungry. He’d do Sips after he got burgers, then. Just go through the drive-through and park by the river. If he did him soon enough, he could even have Sips’ share of the fries. It would probably be polite to let him have a last meal, though. Probably part of the ritual. He frowned, planning the evening as he lined up his shot. Maybe just get extra fries. And ice cream, he’d need Sips to hold the cones while he drove, so he couldn’t do him until after.

Smith knocked down four more pins and pumped his fist. They made a satisfying sound as they clattered down, and the scoreboard finally put numbers at the end of his row.

“Yeah,” said Sips. “See? You just gotta find your zen, and then it’s great. Drop your shoulder a little more next time, though.”

“Wanna show me how to do it?” Smith tucked his thumbs into his belt loops and slowly played his eyes down Sips’ body. The monogrammed polo shirt was frankly awful, and the less said about the bowling shoes the better, but wrapping paper was made to be ripped.

“Yeah, just watch.”

And he fucking turned away and continued bowling. The pins rattled, irritatingly loud, and Smith’s jaw clenched. Sips didn’t even have the decency to look smug, he just looked content. Smith wanted to wipe the expression off his face. He picked up a bowling ball from the dispenser, heavy and solid, and weighed it in his hands. Misrule, he reminded himself. Make it good first.

“What’s in it for you, really?” asked Smith, offering Sips the ball. “This all there is to it?”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Sips didn’t take the ball. Smith’s arms were starting to burn.

“That’s not - what’s so great about it?”

“Dunno. It’s a good sport.” Sips’ eyes were distant, measuring the lane again as the machines retracted. He had that look fishermen got sometimes, staring out at the water as if there was something more important than fish in it. Smith usually figured he was doing that type a favor, giving them what they were looking for, but whatever Sips was trying to find in a bowling alley, it wasn’t a kelpie. Sips took the bowling ball without looking at him.

Smith dug his fingers into his bicep, working the aching muscle. His fingers were sore too, and his wrists. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, or earned blisters in his ill-fitting shoes, but he felt like he was being beaten by pounding, methodical waves.

Smith pulled his attention from Sips, looking around the bowling alley. It had filled up a bit more, almost every other lane occupied by a small cluster of boring-looking people. He couldn’t hear them over the music, but he watched their body language. As far as he could tell, bowling was just something to keep people’s hands busy while they talked and laughed, flirted and competed. There wasn’t a magic trick to it, Smith concluded. It was just a sport for really boring people. More tedious than fishing, and you didn’t even get fish out of it.

Smith took his turn again. Four pins and then none - not that he was counting. The damn computer did it for him, with novelty alien loading screens. He’d have had a better score if he hadn’t had a split, anyway. Sips had been very sympathetic about the split, and told him to aim for the right cluster of pins, but Smith was still putting a bit of left spin on the ball, and it wound up in the gutter two feet shy of the pins. He didn’t plan to remember any of Sips’ technical terms, of course. But it made Sips smile when he used them. That was good. It was useful. He was showing his king a good time.

The machine swept Smith’s pins and set up the lane for Sips. Sips was winning by a frankly embarrassing margin. Not that Smith was willing to be embarrassed about _bowling,_ for fuck’s sake. Sips had been bowling for a long time, and cared more, and all that shit that made a difference. Sips bowled so hard he had transcended numbers - his scoresheet was just an incomprehensible series of punctuation marks and numbers that were much larger than they should have been. Smith frowned at the screen.

“This doesn’t add up, mate.”

“That’s right, Smiffy. I slipped the computer a twenty.” Sips flashed a smile, his teeth glowing white in the blacklights.

“Ha ha. There’s no way - there aren’t this many pins, Sips. Why is it adding my scores and multiplying yours?”

“No really, there’s this little slot on the side for your credit card. Very modern, used to be you had to bribe the guy setting up the pins.”

Smith refused to look at the console. “ _I_ paid for the lane, Sips.”

“Maybe it just likes me better, then.” Sips grinned at him. He rolled his wrist, flexing the tendons in his hand. “Maybe I did the secret magic warmup ritual and you didn’t.”

“There’s no - what?” Smith shot him a narrow look, but Sips was bowling the ball, and Smith had to wait until he was done. “Bullshit. Sips, mate, this is the most boring sport on the planet, you can’t tell me there’s magic involved.”

“Of course there’s magic involved, Smiffy. Nasty stuff, too. League judges always wind up with liver problems from all those curses.”

“You’re pulling my leg.” Smith looked around the room with fresh interest. None of these people looked cutthroat enough to use curses.

“Nah, it’s sort of a tradition,” said Sips calmly, waiting for the pin sweepers to clear the battlefield. “Like hockey fights. I know this guy in Buckhorn, he nearly lost a finger to a curse. Had to go to the hospital and everything.”

“What, did the ball have teeth or something?” Smith looked at his bowling balls dubiously. Nobody would bother cursing public balls, would they? Curses were hard.

“Nah, sort of a necrotic thing? It was weird. He’s still got most of that finger left, but it really changed his grip. Had to get new balls, too. Couldn’t get the smell out of them.”

Sips turned to nail another ball down the lane, and Smith shook his head, trying to get the conversation back on track. Find a way to win the match. Something.

“I - wait, no. What does this have to do with math? You’re avoiding the question.”

Sips shrugged. “I’ll tell you how the math works once you get a spare or better. You don’t really need to know until then.”

“Fuck you, Sips.”

“Go ahead and bowl a spare, then.”

Smith set his jaw and hurled a ball down the lane. His follow-through was getting smoother, but he didn’t bowl a spare, whatever that was. He didn’t ask what a spare was. He didn’t care about bowling, and if he did, he still wouldn’t ask that prick.

Smith didn’t need this shit in his life. Didn’t need a king hogging his shower and taking up Trott’s attention and spooning Ross. He should have ended it ages ago instead of embarrassing himself over some asshole with bad shoes and a boring hobby, should have borrowed a knife from Trott - it would be hard to get a broken bottle in the car without Sips noticing. Maybe they could stop at the Whip-In on the way home, pick up a six-pack. It would help take the edge off, and slow Sips’ reflexes. That sounded like a plan. He could probably catch some of the blood in an empty bottle if he was clever about it, take it home for the other two.

Didn’t have to be anything special, didn’t have to use a fucking champagne flute or anything. It was quick and dirty blood magic, and any chanting or candles or special cups was just dressing up the pig. Bacon was bacon. The King of Misrule was never special, that was the point. You picked some random sod, gave them the time of their life, and then you didn’t get squeamish about making bacon. Smith was damn good at this ritual. The mortals practically lined up for it, begging him to give them the best time of their lives and end things on a high note before their lives got shitty and meaningless again. Smith had never disappointed them.

But he wasn’t good at bowling. That had never mattered before. He didn’t expect it to matter ever again, but it was Sips’ last night, and he’d make an effort to smile, even if that bastard was obviously cheating somehow.

He thought about it as he bowled, the heavy weight of the ball in his hand, heavier than a skull. The slide of the ball along the lane, the crack against the pins. He could. He really could. Just get Sips alone, do him in the bathroom, come back for his boots and jacket. Or afterwards in the parking lot, while Sips was flushed with a good time. This was the evening Sips had wanted when he could have had anything at all. Smith had been so generous.

The machines swept away the fallen pins, replacing them with identical ones - maybe the same ones. Smith sat back in the plastic chair, watching Sips. He could. He really could. Smith’s eyes played over the long lines of Sips, the fragile tendons and the flush of color in his cheeks, the vulnerable turned back. It would be so easy. He could see it now, he could just kill Sips. It’d take no effort, not even a proper knife, just a broken shard of glass from a bottle out back. They could go past the dumpster on the way out, Smith would be sure to find something, and he was quick enough to put it to use. Hell, he could use his _teeth_ if he had to. The other two would be upset they didn’t get their mouthful, but he’d make it up to them with the next king, let them go first, maybe even let them pick. He played it out in his mind, satisfied at his decisiveness and skill. That’d teach the fucking prick. Show him he couldn’t weasel his way out of the ritual, couldn’t get the upper hand.

“Gonna make a move or what?”

Smith darted a guilty glance at Sips. Did he know? He couldn’t. “What?”

“Earth to Smiffy,” said Sips with a grin. “It’s your turn again.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Smith took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “You want to go get dinner? There’s a Burger King nearby.”

“Nah, they’ve got food here. The cheese fries are pretty good, I could go for some.”

Smith’s stomach grumbled. It sounded like a good idea, actually. He could always suggest ice cream later, or beer. He’d think better on a full stomach anyway. “Right,” he said. “You take my turn, I’ll get us something to eat.”

“Get a pitcher of beer,” said Sips, picking up a bowling ball. “And some extra cups to throw out the ice, they always put too much in.”

Smith found himself at the food counter, reading the chalk sign and massaging his wrist. The cheese fries were less than he expected - Sips had chosen the right day and hour to get them cheap. Smith turned his attention on the bored girl at the counter, but she didn’t seem interested. Some people just weren’t. He prided himself on being everyone’s type, but some people just didn’t have a type, and he’d had people accept a ride from him and then turn down a _ride_ from him before. The food counter girl must have been one of the lucky few who didn’t care for men, cars, or leather jackets, he told himself. He frowned, suddenly remembering he was at one out of three. His leather jacket was back at the table, the delicate silver keys in its pocket where anyone could find and take them. He looked back anxiously, but Sips was focused on the lane, winding up for a strike.

Smith took a step towards Sips. Better safe than… but maybe he didn’t know about the keyring. Trott wouldn’t have told him. Safer to stay put. Sips hadn’t gone for them yet. Smith would have felt it if he’d touched them. He moved back to the counter, trying not to fret. Sips wouldn’t. He had no reason to. Smith paid and took hold of the tray, and Sips levelled the pins at the end of the lane.

He tried to pace himself, keep his walk slow and steady and not spill any of the beer. But his arms ached, his shoes pinched, and his steps quickened as he came back to their table. Sips watched him without comment, the pin sweepers working methodically to clear the carnage at the end of the lane. Smith eased the heavy tray down and threw himself into the seat that was wearing his jacket. He patted the pocket, relieved to hear the familiar sweet jingle of his keys.

The cheese fries smelled awful and amazing at the same time, rich with salt and grease, and Smith’s mouth watered. He deserved the first one as a reward for his hard work. He pulled at the tip of a fry half-submerged in the glossy mass of melted cheese. It came free, trailing gluey strings, but he paused before the fry got to his mouth. Last meal. Let the king eat first.

“Sips, mate, you sure this is what you wanted to order?”

“Of course it is, Smiffy.” Sips shoved his bowling ball bags onto a seat and slicked his hand down the side of the beer pitcher, collecting the condensation. He wiped his hand on his trousers before scooping a fry out of the cheese puddle and pushing it into his mouth. “It’s no poutine, but it’s still great.”

“You made that up,” Smith accused. “That’s not a real food.”

“What, not used to human food?” asked Sips with a grin. “You used to living off fairy apples and shit?”

Smith snorted and bit the fry in half. It was salty and warm as blood. Far better than anything he expected to find in this bowling alley. He took another, careful not to drip melted cheese on his dark jeans, and he could feel the warmth of it sinking into him, steadying him. His shoulders eased down a fraction, but he could still feel the stiffness in them. He’d have to talk Ross into a backrub when they got home. The gargoyle’s stone fingers were strong, and he never complained about how tight Smith’s muscles were, or how long he wanted to be massaged. Smith had fallen asleep before with Ross’ hands working across his back, slow and steady. Smith rolled his shoulders, already feeling a little better imagining the royal treatment he could look forward to.

They shared the heaping plastic basket of fries, falling into a peaceful silence among the crashes and loud music. Smith ate fast to make sure he got his fair share. The cheese fries were as hot and greasy as he could have asked for, and burning with salt. Trott had a much higher tolerance for the stuff than he did, but if humans could smoke cigarettes, kelpies could eat fries. He licked his dry lips and ate another fry, savoring the taste even though his tongue felt raw.

Sips gestured at the beer pitcher, his mouth full, and Smith nodded. Smith took hold of the pitcher handle - glass, not plastic. After living with Ross, Smith could tell the difference blindfolded. The handle was cold and slippery with condensation, and the beer had slopped over the edge, but that was fine, he’d swiped plenty of napkins. Sips licked his fingers and untwisted a thick plastic cafeteria cup from the stack, holding it under the spout.

Smith tipped the heavy pitcher carefully and filled one cup with a stream of amber beer before the ice cubes started slipping into the cup, splashing Sips’ hand. Sips made a face, chewing and swallowing his mouthful of fries. He shook the beer off his hand, then tapped Smith’s wrist.

“Lemme hold it, you scoop the ice. You can dump it in the bathroom sink. Or drink it, whatever.” He shrugged.

Smith relinquished his hold, and Sips took over with confidence, tilting it so Smith could rake the ice cubes into the extra cups. Sips offered him a napkin when he was done, and Smith wiped his fingers clean with a grimace at the lingering stickiness on his skin. Sips poured him a beer with the ease of a bartender. Smith took the plastic cup from his hand, lifting it to his lips.

“No, hold on,” said Sips, picking up his own cup and holding it out to Smith. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Smith, licking his lips. He knocked his cup against Sips’ and drank it down. It was stingingly cold, but he still felt parched. Smith slapped the cup down on the table and poured another one. He gulped it down nearly as fast, darting a glance at Sips, who was still nursing his first.

Sips laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s an unending pitcher.”

“That’d be a useful enchantment, don’t you think?” said Smith hoarsely, wiping his mouth.

“Sure,” said Sips, “but it’s only two bucks on Tuesdays. Who needs to bother with magic?”

“Fair enough,” said Smith. He scooped an ice cube out of the cup and sucked on it. It tasted like tap water, and he pushed it from cheek to cheek, soothing his mouth as it dissolved.

Sips dragged a fry through the rapidly congealing cheese, and Smith realized with alarm that the basket was nearly done. He crunched the remains of his ice cube and grabbed a cheese fry, cramming it in his mouth and then reaching for another. His hand darted past Sips’ slow fingers and snagged the last one. It was barely warm, soggy with cheese and oil, but Smith grinned in triumph as he raised the fry to his mouth.

Sips caught his wrist. “That was mine.”

“Was not!” Smith protested. “Possession is nine tenths of the law, mate.”

“I am the law, Smiffy.” Sips reeled his wrist in. Smith didn’t resist.

He half expected Sips to bite his fingers, but Sips’ lips were gentle as he took the fry. He didn’t kiss Smith’s fingertips either, just let go and leaned back to take a drink.

“Did you want more?” Smith asked. His mouthful of fries was thick and gluey, his fingers covered in grease and salt.

“Nah,” said Sips. “I’m fine.” He patted his stomach with satisfaction.

Smith swallowed hard and licked his fingers clean, savoring the burn of the salt.

“You gonna go, Smiffy? It’s your turn again.” Sips watched him mildly.

“It can wait,” Smith said. He tipped the basket towards himself, but there was nothing but oil splatters and cheese smears in it.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” said Sips. “This isn’t a competition or anything. I can just get some practice in.”

“Sure,” Smith mumbled. He raised his cup to his mouth and didn’t look at the scoreboard. It didn’t matter anyway. It was just bowling.

Sips stood up and stretched. “Wash your hands if you change your mind. Nobody likes a greasy bowling ball.” He took a last slurp of beer and wandered towards the bathroom at an easy pace.

Smith watched him go. This was his chance, he told himself. Bring the ice cups, smash one against the sink, use a shard… his stomach churned. The cheese fries sat heavily inside him. Not on a full stomach, he decided. Maybe once he’d had time to digest. He took a chip of ice from the cup and rolled it in his mouth.

Sips came back from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his trousers, and Smith tried to bite through his ice cube. It was still too thick to break. He switched it to the other cheek, sucking on it. Sips dusted his hands with the little bag of chalk, picked up a pink ball, and bowled it down the lane, knocking down all the pins but one. A rocket ship cheered across the screen while the machines methodically swept the wood, putting the solitary pin back down in its place. Sips knocked it down with a smooth, slow ball that seemed to curve as it rolled. Spare, announced the alien spaceship on the scoreboard. Smith watched an incomprehensible mark appear in his column.

“What’s a spare, then?” Smith asked.

“Huh?”

“I bowled a spare, didn’t I?” He wedged the ice chip between his teeth and grinned at Sips.

“ _I_ bowled a spare, Smiffy.”

“Computer says _I_ did,” said Smith. He tucked the ice back into his cheek. “Sucked it off while you were in the toilet.”

“Aw, Smiffy,” said Sips, his voice warm. “You’re learning. I’m so proud.”

“Well, go on,” said Smith. “You promised.” He tested the plastic rim of his cup with his teeth. It was hard and thick, without even a splatter of glow-in-the-dark paint to dress it up. He took another sip of beer.

“A spare is when it takes both rolls to clear the lane,” said Sips. “You get ten points for it, and you add the score of the next roll to the frame.”

“What happens when I knock down all the pins in one go?”

“Awful confident about your bowling skills all of a sudden, Smiffy,” Sips said dryly.

“What can I say, mate, practice makes perfect.”

“What a learning curve,” said Sips. “Don’t sprain yourself, mate.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Smith, raising his eyebrows.

Smith unlaced his awful bowling shoes. He deserved a rest after all that bowling, and his arms ached in sympathy as he watched Sips double his score. The music finally switched to something not half bad and he toed his shoes off, propping his knees against the table to keep his socks off the dubious carpet. His feet felt light, though he’d have to put the shoes back on eventually to get his unending refills. For now, the pitcher was still half full. He rubbed his neck, watching Sips’ seemingly effortless grip on the bowling balls, and put another ice cube in his mouth. The last one had vanished while he wasn’t paying attention.

Smith sucked on the ice cube, watching Sips bowl. He moved gracelessly, but with confidence. As mortal as rust. He ambled through the routine of bowling with practiced awkwardness - four steps, the pendulum swing, the dipped knee, and the slide of bowling shoes on polished wood. The ball rumbled down the lane, clattering into the pins, and the sweepers descended. Smith watched the intricate movements of the machines, jerky and fluid at the same time, with more moving parts than he could keep track of. The bowling ball knocked down some pins, and more replaced them. It was the same thing, playing out over and over, the only difference the number of pins left standing when the bar descended to sweep them all into the gutter.

The college kids had drifted to the arcade in the back, tapping buttons and smacking air hockey pucks back and forth. Lane eleven was a beacon of light in the darkness, and club lights spun idly across the empty lanes, out of sync with the music. Smith watched them until he found the pattern of their rotation. He tuned out the pounding music, listening to the smooth rumble of Sips’ bowling balls rolling down the lane and the murmur of pulleys and belts in the ball return.

“Hey, Smiffy.” A hand ruffled his hair, and he blinked his eyes back into focus. “Come on, I’m done here. Don’t want to sprain myself, got a real game coming on.”

“Was it fun?” Smith asked. “Did you have a good time?” He didn’t know why he asked, and his heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. His tongue was thick and dry, and the unending beer pitcher was empty.

“Yeah, it was okay,” said Sips. He took his bowling balls from the ball dispenser, one in each hand, and put them on the table. A small, worn towel came out of one of the zippers on the duffel bag, and Sips gave each ball an unhurried polish, turning them in his hands.

Something inside Smith relaxed. He took a deep breath, stretching the stiffness out of his neck and shoulders as he watched Sips’ hands move. “Well, it’s _bowling_ , mate. Could have picked something more exciting.”  

He gingerly put his feet on the cold carpet and reached for a bowling ball. Sips put one down on the table for him, and Smith rolled the heavy ball into its denim case, zipping it up while Sips put its mate into the duffel bag.

Sips shrugged, sitting down in a plastic chair. “I love this bowling alley.” He plucked at his shoelaces.

“You love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” Smith challenged. He groped under the table for his ugly rented shoes, and decided not to put his feet back in them. He’d be fine in his socks for the short walk back to the counter.

Sips tugged off his bowling shoes, taking his original pair from the duffel bag. “Well, actually, I did,” Sips said.

Smith’s hand tightened on his jacket. “What.”

“Yeah, the bowling alley and I got hitched the other week, did I forget to tell you?” Sips’ voice was light and easy as he zipped up his duffel bag. “Cosmo Bowling and I are very happy together.”

“And you didn’t invite me to the wedding?” Smith’s eyes narrowed. His jacket was cold and stiff as he shrugged into it. He patted the weight of his keys in his pocket.

“Well, we didn’t really need another gravy boat,” explained Sips. “We decided to elope.”

“Fuck you, Sips,” said Smith, laughter threatening to break through his growl.

“It was a whirlwind romance,” said Sips, shouldering the duffel bag and picking up the tray. “Put your balls back, Smiffy.”

“That’s someone else’s job,” protested Smith.

“Don’t make a mess,” said Sips. He turned his back, strolling towards the food counter, and Smith hooked his fingers into the green bowling balls, groaning at the ache as he picked them up. He picked his way through the darkness of the blacklights, dropping them on the nearest shelf.

Smith caught up with Sips at the shoe checkout counter, his rented shoes in one hand and Sips’ bowling ball case in the other. He put the shoes on the counter, and the spotty teenager behind it reeled them in, giving Sips a respectful nod. Smith watched with a pang of worry as they sprayed the shoes down with something that stank of antiseptic. His boots looked fine when the teenager passed them back, apparently unsullied by the spray, and none the worse for the wear. Not even a scuff mark on the toes.

“So, what, is this alley Sips Bowling now?” challenged Smith. He shot a look at Sips, taking hold of his boots. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“Well, that’s because I’m taking her last name. _My_ name is Sips Bowling now.”

Smith laughed, kneeling to put his boots back on. He felt like himself for the first time in the afternoon, back in his boots and jacket. Straightening up to his full height, he put a finger through his keyring, flipping the keys back and forth in his hand. He licked his dry lips.

“Want to get something to drink, Sips?”

“Nah,” said Sips. “Let’s go home.” He put a hand on Smith’s shoulder and squeezed. Smith nodded, picking up the bowling ball case. Sips steered him gently towards the door, and Smith pushed it open, holding it until Sips walked through.

It was dark outside already, and Smith blinked in surprise. The cheesy mid-afternoon attempt at a nightclub atmosphere had been so fake that he had lost track of time passing, and the sky was dim with the reflected light of the city. There were no stars out. He wondered how long the game had been. Forever, if the ache in his wrists was anything to go by.

The drive home was quiet. The lights favored him tonight, green and easy, and Smith changed gears smoothly, keeping the engine at a low purr. Sips leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the light of the streetlights flicker over his face. Smith left the radio at a murmur, humming along to it when a tune caught his attention and then lapsing into silence.

The Burger King sign came up, glowing in the night. Smith drove past it. He didn’t want to break the peace with the crackle and blare of drive-through speakers, and it was too cold for ice cream anyway. He could have something to drink when they got home, it wasn’t far. Maybe a cup of tea. They should still have some biscuits left, if Ross hadn’t finished them off.

Smith wondered if Sips had been lulled to sleep by the drive, but he stretched and opened his eyes when he heard the engine turn off.

“Sips, mate,” whispered Smith.

“Yeah, Smiffy?”

“We’re home.”

The car’s lights were off, and Smith caught a hint of a smile in the shadows, and the creak of upholstery as Sips leaned forward.

“You did good today,” murmured Sips. “I’m proud of you.”

Smith felt warm breath against his cheek, and turned until his lips grazed Sips’ in the dark. Sips kissed him lightly, barely more than a dry brush of lips before he pulled back. Smith heard Sips’ hand on the door handle, and his breath caught in his chest.

“Sips, I -”

“Come on, Smiffy. They’re waiting for us.” He opened the door.

Smith followed Sips.

The keys jingled loudly as Smith unlocked the front door, and he gave them a practiced twist as he put a shoulder into it. It always stuck, but nobody had gotten around to fixing it yet. Ross claimed it was Trott’s job. Trott claimed it was probably good for strengthening the threshold. The door popped open, and warmth and light spilled into the dingy hallway. Smith took a deep breath.

The air was rich with the scent of soy sauce and frying vegetables, and he could taste the pepper from the entrance hall. Smith could hear Ross puttering around the kitchen, beatboxing along to something on the radio. Trott was quieter, padding around barefoot, but Smith caught the quiet clink of metal against wood as he set the table.

“Honey, I’m home,” Sips called. He leaned down to put his duffel bag on the floor and Smith put the bowling ball case neatly beside it, shucking his jacket onto a chair overflowing with coats. He pocketed his keys and followed Sips around the corner.

The TV was still on, paused on a frame of Nicolas Cage’s face. Smith recognized the movie - one of Sips’ favorites, and he’d probably insist on watching it from the start after dinner. Sips walked past it without a glance, hand trailing across the wall as he ambled towards the kitchen. Smith put his hands on the back of the couch. He could see the nest of blankets and walrus skin where the others had been cuddled up together. It looked warm. There were new bottles in the clutter of the coffee table - the last of the beer, dry and empty. Should have picked up another six-pack on the way home. Smith tried for a cookie wrapper. Nothing but crumbs. He crumpled it in his fist and tossed it back, following Sips to the kitchen. Couldn’t let Ross give him all the best bits of the stir fry.

“Looks like the evening went well,” said Trott. “Did you pick up _drinks_ , Smith?” He laid down a fork, and moved to the next plate. There were four plates, Smith noticed. His jaw tightened.

“What’s the matter, mate?” Smith challenged. “Ross’ cooking too spicy for you?”

“It’s very spicy,” said Ross mildly. “Trott cried.”

“Snitches get stitches, Ross,” said Trott. He took a glass out of the cupboard and pressed it to the ice dispenser. Ice cubes thundered down into the glass, and Smith watched him narrowly.

“Who won?” asked Ross, pushing stir fry around in a pan. Ross’ eyes flickered over Sips’ dry clothes.

“It wasn’t a competition,” snapped Smith.

“Doesn’t sound like you won,” said Ross smugly.

Trott filled his glass with water from the tap. The ice cubes crackled as he raised it to his mouth and took a sip.

“You should have seen it, Ross,” said Sips with lazy satisfaction. “I kicked his ass. It was beautiful.” He crowded behind Ross to inspect the pan. Ross fished out a snow pea with the spatula, blowing on it before offering it to him. Sips slipped a hand around Ross’s waist, and Ross leaned back against his warmth.

“Is that so,” said Trott quietly, meeting Smith’s eyes.

“Fuck off, Trott,” said Smith. It came out more tired than he had intended. He ran a hand through his hair.

“And are you going to try _bowling_ again?” asked Trott, his voice dark and velvety.

Smith growled at him, his face burning. “Bowling is shit, Trott. You fucking try it.”

“I’m not the one who wanted to,” said Trott pointedly.

“I want to go bowling,” said Ross. “Is it hard?”

Sips squeezed Ross’ shoulder. “Nah, I’ll show you the ropes. You’ll like it.”

“What? No, fuck you,” said Smith. “I was there first.” He took a step closer to Sips.

“You said you hated it!” argued Ross. He pressed closer against Sips.

“Doesn’t mean you can have it,” said Smith through clenched teeth. He locked eyes with Ross.

Trott watched with interest.

“Come on, you guys,” Sips drawled, stealing a slice of carrot from the pan. “I’ll take you all. We can get a real game going.” He gestured with the carrot, then popped it in his mouth.

“Going to play by the rules, Smith?” asked Trott, his voice serious. He set his cup down on the counter with a firm click.

“Of course he is,” said Sips. “I want a good clean game. You have to learn the fundamentals before you learn how to cheat properly, right, Smiffy?” He shuffled closer to Smith and hooked an arm over his neck, warm and heavy and perilously close to a headlock.

Smith swallowed hard. Ross and Trott were watching him closely, and Sips - Smith’s chest tightened. His mouth felt dry. “If we keep doing this, I get my own ball,” he muttered. “I’m not sharing.”

“Aw, Smiffy, that’s adorable.” Sips tousled his hair. “I’ll get it engraved special, just for you.”

Ross grinned. “Ooh, how about Kermit’s balls? How many letters can you have?”

“The shocker,” said Trott.

“Nah,” said Sips. “Just Smiffy.”

  
  


 


End file.
